To Dream, perchance to Sleep?
by Necchan
Summary: 6th in the "Love Until we Bleed Verse". Jason/Tim. The first one to come to Jason, predictably, was Batman. The one to come to Tim, predictably, was Alfred. WARNING for Jay's really foul language
1. Jason's side

**Title: **To Dream, perchance to Sleep?

**Fandom:** DCU- Batman.

**Rating:** R for blood and sexual situations.

**Genre: **Romance, Angst, Suspense, perhaps?

**Wordcount: **4948 (I scare myself sometimes).

**Characters/Pairings: **Jason Todd/Tim Drake, Alfred, Nightwing, Batman.

**Warnings: **Self-betaed, Jason ( ), slash, mentions of blood, sexual situations (something very soft, though), subtext like _woah_.

**Summary: **Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, he was fresh from a nightmare, and the Batman was in _his_ bedroom, prowling_._

**Notes: **Sixth instalment in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. In this 'verse, Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he first one to come to him, predictably, was Batman.

Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, startled out from a nightmare by a noise that could've been imagined, it was so soft. So eerie. Familiar? Jason bolted upright in his bed, sweat flicking from his forehead as his body reared backwards, smacking against the headboard in a defensive stance. His heart pounded, the sheet felt sticky, coiled around his legs. A quick sweep of his eyes across the room revealed shadows, shadows and more shadows, a sea of them. There was no sound. No movement.

Jason's hands dropped, as realization settled like a weight in the middle of his chest: Batman was there. Was in _his_ bedroom, prowling_._

As if summoned by the thought, the Bat emerged from a shadowed corner, cape trailing behind him, woven of the darkness itself. His shoulders were tense, his mouth drawn into a tight, unforgiving line. The lenses of his cowl were pools of white, capturing and reflecting all the light in the room. Like coals, they burned as they raked down Jason's face.

"Your strategy skills make me proud," he said. But his voice was a growl, contrasting sharply with the words coming from his mouth. "You hurt him, in order to save him. You preferred to break his heart now, rather than later, in order to minimize the damage. Such a thoughtful, mature decision. You make me _proud_."

Jason sneered, scrubbing a hand through his sleep-mussled hair. And if his fingers gripped at the sweaty strands in some odd blend of rage and guilt, no one was the wiser.

"Well, _fuck you too_, Bruce," he said. "Unlike someone? At least I'm _trying _to stop the metaphorical fuckin' crowbar before it kills Robin."

The Batman had no outward reaction. He stood still like death, and if it weren't for his breath raising in silvery glyphs before his mouth, he could've been a figure cut out of dark paper.

"You want what's good for him. That's commendable."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a perfect little angel. Hadn't you heard?"

"But," Batman's eyes slitted. His voice lowered into a hiss. "Good intentions are _not_ what he requires from you."

"Again with the cryptic bullshit, Bruce?" Jason rubbed his eyes, tired in more ways than just the physical. "What's today's pearl of wisdom?"

"There is no hidden meaning to my words, Jason. You can take them at face value."

"Which means?"

"...it means that you made a mess_,_ Little Wing_. As usual." _

The new voice was light and faintly bemused, as though it had been contrived only for cajoling and telling jokes. The note of disapproval vibrating beneath the apparent casualness felt like it didn't belong. It didn't just make the voice darker or deeper; it made it _wrong_, like the sound of an instrument played underwater, its tones distorted and drowned by the water's pressure.

Jason rounded on Nightwing like a panther, issuing a low, warning growl from deep within his throat.

"Oh, don't sound so pleased with my failure, Dickiebird. One might think you _care_."

Nightwing arranged himself against the opposite wall, arms flexed across his chest, head cocked so that the long hair fell away from his eyes. His face was hidden from view, just like Batman's; and just like Batman, his eyes were white and luminous, and narrowed into slits.

"Pleased? Hardly. Do I care? You _bet_. Tim is a mess, Jason. All thanks to _you_."

"I didn't-"

Nightwing's right hand rose sharply, cutting through the air like a blade and commanding silence.

"Ah. Don't even _try_ that," he warned. "I _get_ that you didn't want to hurt him, but see how well that went. Literally ripping his heart out would've hurt less, I bet."

"What the fuck did you want me to do, asshole? Stand back and watch as he ruined his life? He'll be okay in the long run."

"What, when he's done picking up the _tiny little pieces_ you broke his heart into, you mean?" Nightwing flipped casually over the back of a chair, landed on the seat in an elegant perch, head tilted sideways like a huge, dark bird. "You know how heartbreak works, Jay. How long do you think it'll take him to recover? A million years from now?"

"However long it takes, at least he'll have his family helping him along, because his hands are still clean!" He lashed out, swept the lamp off the bedside table with a crash. "It hurt Tim when I shot that man. I could tell, it _hurt_ him. And what did he do about it? Nothing! Because he fucking wants _me_, so he was willing to let it go and forgive me!"

"And Robin isn't allowed to make choices Batman wouldn't approve of," Batman supplied in a gravelly murmur. Jason rounded on him, all but snarling.

"You can fucking bet he's not! You'd reject him if he all but breathed the same air as me, and that'd fucking _destroy_ him!_"_

Nightwing rolled his eyes. "Oh, and _your_ rejection didn't do any damage, mh? _Right."_

Jason focused on him once more, his voice low and dangerously cool, honed by anger into a knife's edge.

"Listen, you asshole. I _know_ I fucked up. I know I hurt him. I hurt him big time_._ But I'm trying to do the right thing here, so _fuck. Off."_

"But you_ want_ him_," _Batman murmured behind him, his voice like gravel, like tombstones and moonlight. Jason glanced at him over his shoulder, at the black figure standing like a nightmare at the edge of his vision.

"When ever has it mattered what the fuck _I_ want? I'm _bad_ for him, and you know it. I made sure he'll never want anything to do with me again – the last thing I expected you to do was bitch about it."

"You want _him," _Nightwing echoed.

Jason whipped towards him, breathing hard. Nightwing's eyes were not just white but _glowing_ through all that fuckin' darkness.

"_He_ wanted me, for whatever fuckin' reason, and I made sure he damn well _stopped!" _Jason snapped. "Now _you _will all be a happy family again. You are the winners here. What the hell are you complaining about?"

Batman moved closer, his cape hissing in the encroaching silence, hissing and slithering like a living thing. He shook his head once, twice, an air of condolence about him.

"_You_ want him," he remarked a third time, gravelly, as if it was the thing that mattered most, the thing that _hurt_ the most, and Jason wanted to lash out at _him_ too, but was rooted on the spot, glued to it, and if his insides had turned into lead, and the darkness clogged his nostrils, filled his throat, suffocating him.

"What I want," Jason snarled, "is to return the little bird to its nest _before_ something in the Big Bad World out here gets to it!"

"You want a lot of things, Little Wing. You wanted to avenge him," Nightwing murmured, in a voice like distant waters, "and failed. You wanted to protect him, and failed. You wanted him to stay away from you and not be corrupted; and look at that, you _failed._"

"Don't get started, asshole. I _know_ I fucked up, but you have no right to stand there and act like this isn't your fault, too."

A ghost-smile played across Nightwing's lips, a moon's sliver gleaming in the dark, eerie and entirely kissable.

"_My_ fault?"

"You, yes, _your fault."_ Jason jabbed a finger towards Nightwing, both wishing he was close enough to get him straight in the chest; and knowing that if he were that close, harmless poking wouldn't be enough to assuage his anger. He felt trapped. Cornered, like a beast; hurt and ready to lash out.

"He's supposed to love _you_, you fucking piece of shit. _You_ are the golden child. His perfect hero. His precious _Robin,"_ he spat. "But look at that, the kid went and chose me._ Me._ The family's black sheep. The failure. The psycho. Tell me, what does that say of _you_, if Tim would rather have the one that's not right in the head- the blood-thirsty fucking _Demon_- than you?"

"Why do you always have to pick on yourself?" Tim's voice was sudden, like thunder. And like thunder, it filled the air around them, it echoed through Jason's chest as if it were hollow, and it was _odd,_ because that voice was anything but powerful; rather, it was small and almost threadbare, suspended in the dark like a ghost of itself, flickering lying dying candlelight.

Jason felt a tug on his hand. Once, twice. He whipped his head down and sideways, and there stood Tim, a tiny child, decked with Jason's own Robin costume. The vest dwarfed him, and it was shredded and bloodied and coated with ashes. The trailing cape was torn, gauntlets and boots were caked with fluids.

Tim's little chin was trembling tearfully, the domino mask held askance, ripped in such a way that a wide blue eye showed through, bright and teary, a pool of blue light in the dark.

"Why do you have to be so mean, Jason?" he whispered. And then, as if it could somehow redeem Jason in Jason's own eyes: "I _love_ you."

If Jason had had any doubt this was a dream, it was gone now. A whine tore itself from his throat, and he fell onto his knees, clasped Tim to his own chest, clung on tight, big palms spread on the trembling back, feeling the little heart beat like a caged bird through the ruined fabric.

Tim burrowed into him, warm and soft, his plump arms circling Jason's neck. His breath fanned hot and shy against Jason's skin as he tucked his face under Jason's chin, trembling little fists grasping tightly onto the hair at the back of his nape.

"I love you," Tim said again, like a plea. "Why can't you love me, too?"

His scent was warm and sweet, baby-scent and coffee and lemon and Alfred's scones and night-breeze when Jason burrowed right back onto him.

"Because it's wrong, baby." Jason rocked him, crooned low and soft, swaying to and fro. "_I'm_ wrong."

Tim pulled back, and he was not a child anymore, but a young man, naked and pliant against Jason's chest, scars and skin stretched over sinewy muscle, budding nipples pebbling as they chafed against Jason's shirt. His eyes were dark and determined, glinting like onyx. His mouth was a down-turned bow of the palest pink.

"But I _want_ you," Tim whispered, low and sultry. "And_ you_ want me." Hands slid under Jason's shirt, "You _want_ me," they chased shivers against his bare skin, as Tim declared a third time, like a charm, like a curse: "You want _me_."

Jason cupped Tim's cheek, leaned close to breath him in, breath the scent of lemon and sweets (home) and Kevlar and sweat (the mission) and soap and salt and _sex_ (Tim).

"I do," he admitted at last. "Want you. Need you."

"Then _have_ me."

The unspoken words from the warehouse, and just like that, flickering firelight was around them, smoke burning down his throat, his nostrils, and a multitude of eyes were needling them, spearing them, nasty eyes, beast eyes, judgemental and terrified, and the shadow of the Bat loomed upon them, and Nightwing was perched like a bird of prey on his right shoulder and Jason had no fear for himself, but Robin – Tim – _Robin_ was his own to protect, he'd always been, so Jason shook his head, slowly and deliberately, and said: "No," like a sentence.

The sensuous thing that looked like Tim licked his lips, stretched against Jason's chest, needy for him.

"Why?"

"Because now matter how you may wish to, you _can't_ change me."

Tim's chest heaved quicker and quicker still, the flush of arousal spreading across his face, down his neck, where the scar stretched white like a sliver of glass.

"Jason..."

"And no matter how _wrong_ I came back from the grave... I d_on't want_ to change you."

He caught the flash of surprise across Tim's wounded gaze. Realization, perhaps. That Jason's love was as real as his own, but belonged to the odious sort that kills itself just to keep the beloved safe, and knows no other comfort than its own, cold self-sacrifice.

The surprised frown on Tim's lips was slipping, and a different kind of expression was dawning in its place, a tremulous smile, a _Tim_ smile, insecure but warm with hope. Yet, before it could form, before the hurt and challenge and lust could shift into hopeful joy in those wide blue eyes, the body in Jason's arms was changing again, turning into a pillar of salt, a pillar that creaked through and splintered and _fell,_ piece by piece, crumbling into fine dust, until Jason's arms were holding nothing but himself. Himself and a tattered yellow cape and the hint of tears and blood and a heart he was not worthy to touch, but belonged to him, anyway.

Jason woke up screaming.


	2. Tim's side

**Title: **To Dream, perchance to Sleep?

**Fandom:** DCU- Batman.

**Rating:** R for blood and sexual situations.

**Genre: **Romance, Angst, Suspense, perhaps?

**Wordcount: **4948 (I scare myself sometimes).

**Characters/Pairings: **Jason Todd/Tim Drake, Alfred, Nightwing, Batman.

**Warnings: **Self-betaed, Jason ( ), slash, mentions of blood, sexual situations (something very soft, though), subtext like _woah_.

**Summary: **Too Damn Early o' clock in the morning, he was fresh from a nightmare, and the Batman was in _his_ bedroom, prowling_._

**Notes: **Takes place in the "(love) Until We Bleed" 'verse. This implies that Tim's on the prowl for his very own Jaybird, but Jay's got a very bad cause of the denial.

* * *

><p><strong>T<strong>he one to come to him, predictably, was Alfred.

Bruce and Dick had approached Tim several times, together and on their own, every other night since "_the fact_" (that's how Tim referred to it, if only in the privacy of his own mind. Calling it "_The break up_" sounded juvenile and... entirely too heartbreaking, so he eagerly skipped it).

But something – be it Tim's own acting skill, be it the shortage that affected their clan when it came to Discuss Those Dreaded Things Known As _Feelings_ – had convinced them that Tim was affected by no other plight but the obvious. Being caught unawares by low-class crooks, drugged and subsequently saved by his evil step-brother seemed like a good enough reason for Tim's constant brooding, for the nausea and lack of appetite that were already translating into hollowness on his pinched face.

Dick harboured no suspicion on what had really come to be in the warehouse. He knew his little brother deeply and intimately, and as such was justified in his belief that Tim wasn't holing himself up in his room to nurse his broken heart, but rather devising ways to make himself a better Robin.

Bruce, on the other hand, seemed to have an inkling that something other than failure was troubling his Robin. If asked, he would divulge nothing, and he himself would not press for details. But he _had_ changed Tim's patrolling route so that it didn't reach either the harbour district _or _the area were Jay lived. He had, also, gone to Blackgate to visit the crooks who'd manhandled Robin, and had come back home with his gauntlets bloody all around the knuckles, and a grim satisfaction settled around his mouth.

Last but not least, he'd also been mentioning every so often that Tim ought to stop by his study for a "talk". However, this particular endeavour had been rather fruitless, and had been met with nothing but stubborn silence.

If Batman needed his counsel (Tim reasoned), he would summon _Robin_ to the Batcave, and not _Tim_ to the study. Which left a 95,6% chance that the offer was nothing but a ruse, a trap wherein Tim would be forced to sit down and open up.

And he didn't want to.

He didn't _want_ to.

As far as he was concerned, the worse thing that had happened that night was-

_the break up_

(don't call it _that)_

-was the fight he'd had with Jason-

_the break up_

_(DON'T CALL IT THAT!)_

If he could say so to himself, Tim was good at coping (or pretending to cope) with loss. He'd acquired enough experience in the department to know that _no_, talking about it would _not_ help. Not when the grief was still so powerful.

What he needed right now was time and space to rationalize the-

_Break. Up._

_(No, no, don't call it THAT, Tim.)_

-events that had taken place in the warehouse.

Talking about Jason – the _loss_ of Jason – and with _their_ father of all people – it was too much. Just... _too much._

So far, (two weeks, three days and seven hours from _The Fact_, but who's counting?) his quest for space and privacy had been rather successful.

That was about to change.

Tim had just returned from patrol (no harbour district, no Blackgate, no Crime Alley and no Jason – Red Hood – _Jason,_ for him), and was fighting his insomnia with the aid of a worn-out copy of "Pravdopodobnie Nebylitsi", when the door to his room slid open and then close in a matter of seconds.

Whomever had intruded upon his privacy, they hadn't knocked; and one can only imagine Tim's surprise when, lowering his book, he saw Alfred standing by the feet of his bed, carrying a steaming teapot on a silver tray.

Four A.M. wasn't an uncommon hour for tea (not in _Batman's_ house, anyway). But Alfred was unerringly proper at all times, and it was unlike him to come in a room unannounced. Not unless someone's life depended on it.

If his arched eyebrow was anything to go by, there were no doubt in Alfred's mind that the present occurrence fell precisely under that category.

For a few, precious seconds, Tim nursed the hope he could dodge The Talk. But it came crumbling down the moment he noticed there were two cups on the tray, flanking the teapot like little guard-dogs.

Sighing, he dropped his book, gesturing for Alfred to put the tray on the dresser. He even scooted further up the bed, wordlessly offering a seat, but Alfred didn't concede, instead looming over Tim much like a grandfather would loom over a child who'd caused him grief.

The analogy was only too fitting, and Tim found himself squirming as Alfred wordlessly dipped the infuser into the hot water, as intent on the task as if he were performing ancient alchemy.

"As loath as you might be to hear this," he began in that no-nonsense tone Tim had learned to associate with concern a long time ago. "It was proved that humankind does _need_ a certain amount of sleep to function. As you haven't had the chance to rest in a fortnight, I do believe a spot of Chamomile tea is exactly what you need."

Tim knew better than to deny his sleeping problems. He also knew better than blurting: "Forget the tea, it's Jay I need," no matter how strong the urge was.

"I have been... _preoccupied," _he said slowly, trying not to divulge too much. But, as much of a mastermind as he was, he was still a fledgling, compared to Alfred.

"Indeed you have," Alfred said, turning to face him and crossing his hands primly behind his back. "Something the matter between yourself and _Master Jason_?"

Tim's jaw dropped, and he began to splutter a long and not-coherent string of half-words and broken sentences that had Alfred's arched eyebrow reach new and untold heights across his forehead.

"My lad," he offered as a means of explanation, "it is idle speculation at best, but the way you _flinch_ each time his name is brought up leaves room to wonder."

Tim coloured slightly across the bridge of his nose. The topic of his flinching had been brought up once or twice before, but Tim had skilfully evaded the questions on both occasion. Let everyone think that they would; even their wildest speculation was probably more sound than the naked truth.

Besides, admitting that: "_I love him, and I flinch at the mention of his name because he broke up with me", _was likely to start a mess Tim wasn't ready to deal with, yet.

If ever.

"I...uh... do not," he said in what he firmly told himself wasn't a whine. "Flinch, I mean. When Ja—" _flinch._ "When _he is_ mentioned."

Alfred's other eyebrow began its own climbing spree.

"Indeed," he remarked dryly.

Tim busied himself picking non-existent dust from his sheets.

"I am..."

"Preoccupied, I believed you called it, though it does seem like a bit of an understatement," Alfred finished for him. And really, Tim would have liked to glare at him, but you just _don't_ _glare_ at Alfred, no matter how his prim English omniscience might grate on common mortals' nerves.

"Well, I _am." _

Tim snapped, and it could have been patronising, if it didn't sound so tired and lost.

"Then you may find that talking about it will ease the burden," Alfred offered kindly.

Tim's eyes flickered up to Alfred, and saw that he was holding out a cup, steam curling up from within in intricate glyphs. It smelled fruity and delicate, soothing in a way that was hard to explain, but had something to do with half-forgotten childhood memories. Tim reached out tentatively, closed his hand around the cup and quickly brought it to his chest, as though he was cold inside and needed the warmth to thaw some unseen block of ice.

"I..." he began, but he wasn't sure what he meant to say, and his voice dropped into a sigh. If he were truly honest with himself, Tim was tired of pretending he was All Right. Lying to Alfred seemed low and wrong and absolutely pointless, besides. He felt an urge as strong as pain to just let go, open up and allow some of the hurt to seep away from his chest, like the infection from a wound.

Still, he was nothing but a cautious person. So: "I can't-" _divulge much_, he began to say; but when ever was Alfred not a step ahead, anyway?

"I am not in the habit of betraying confidences." Alfred moved back towards the dresser, pouring tea in the second cup, holding the teapot handle with a tiny cloth, and lightly grazing the tips of his fingers to the lid. "But you can be moderate with the details, if that makes you more comfortable."

Tim nodded slowly and tucked his knees up, teacup cradled carefully against his chest. His face was dry, but his eyes gleamed oddly in the low light, his bangs shadowing them just slightly. Talking through the pain in his chest wasn't easy, it hadn't been for two long weeks; but he exhaled, long and low, his breath disturbing the steam and fanning it over the cup like ghostly wings. He drank some of the tea, barely enough to wet his lips, then began:

"For years, I've been... wanting something. Not always on a conscious level, but-it was there. Always. So lately, I've... I've decided to give myself a chance and try to—to make it _mine." _He looked down into his tea. His throat felt tight, so he took a sip, then another. The concoction was sweet, not too hot, and pleasantly thick against his tongue, as if it had been honeyed.

"Did you succeed, Master Timothy?"

"_Yes_. No. I mean- I thought I was going _somewhere_, I really did. But suddenly, everything went down the drain, and I... I don't even know what I did wrong."

He raked his fingers through his hair, blowing out a long, shuddery breath.

Alfred waited a suitable amount of time, allowing Tim the chance to collect himself, then ventured a polite guess.

"Did Master Jason have a hand in this... failure?"

Tim flinched, like an automatic response. It was such a sharp motion, that his chamomile tea spilled over the rim of the cup. He sucked absently on his scalded hand, watching as a couple of wet stains grew lazily across his thigh.

"Jason, he-" _is_ "-has something I-" _need_ "-want."

He trailed off. Alfred set his own cup down on the dresser, as if he were considering to go over, but decided to keep his distance in the end.

"Is it something important, Master Timothy?"

"Yes."

"Something you cannot do without?"

"No."

"Something you are prepared to fight against your own family to have?"

A low, bitter chuckle rasped out of Tim's mouth.

"_You truly have no idea."_

Alfred tsked, tongue sharp against his teeth.

"I see. May I ask why you are wasting away in this fashion, when you should be endeavouring to acquire this something?"

There was a sharp intake of a breath from Tim. Silence, for several moments. Their eyes met over the tea's moist curls of heat, and Tim blurted:

"I _tried_."

Alfred arched an eyebrow at that. Tim looked away, hands wrapping tighter around his cup.

"To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction." He blew the hair from before his eyes. "The harder I pushed to get what I wanted, the harder I was pushed back. And now..." he trailed off, his voice getting small and _thin,_ and so, so hopeless. He buried his face in his knees, and his next words came out as a mumble. "...now I pushed too hard, and I've been shut off. How can I fight when these are the odds? What can I _try?"_

Alfred cleared his throat, and Tim's eyes flickered up to him.

"If I may, Master Timothy... if force is not the suitable solution to your problem, I suggest you try a somewhat... ah, _stealthier_ approach."

"_Stealthier?"_

"You may find that a gentle push opens some doors much more effectively than throwing yourself bodily at them."

"I tried, Alfred. I tried everything. I tried brawling, I tried talking. I tried-" his cheeks coloured, and he hastily hid his face behind his cup, under the guise of drinking more tea. "-_persuading_ Jason. Tricking him. Bribing him. Baiting him. Beating sense into that thick skull he has. I tried and tried and tried, but it- it got me _nowhere."_

"I have to point out that your tactics do sound awfully forceful. And while a certain degree of stubbornness is required to tame the stubborn, the wounded won't react well to anything too extreme."

Tim sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and looked unsure of himself.

"I... I _did_ come on to him rather strongly," Tim admitted, and if Alfred noticed the slip, he kindly gave no indication to it.

"Perhaps, changing your approach would benefit you in the long run."

"Change it _how?_

Tim's voice was nothing short of forlorn. Alfred leaned over, picked the cup of cold tea from his hands and found no resistance to speak of.

"I cannot presume to know much about this conundrum you are in-" he said, in a tone of voice that clearly meant _'I do, but I'm willing to let you have your secrets, young man'_ "-but I know this: perseverance is one of your best qualities, Sir. If there is a way for you to obtain your heart's desire, I am positive you will find it."

Tim fought a yawn, and as Alfred patiently pushed him back, pulled the cover up to his chin, and fluffed his pillow, Tim's mind flashed with recognition to the taste of mild anaesthetic in his tea. He couldn't find it in himself to begrudge Alfred – he must have been gearing up for this one for a while, Tim supposed. Fussing over Tim for days on end, and never getting the satisfaction of it doing any good.

Sleep tugged at his eyelids, and Tim settled back, grumbling softly to himself. To this day, Tim isn't sure how much of the following came from Alfred, if any; and how much from his own conscience, made hyper-aware by the drugs.

"You," said Alfred's voice, disembodied in the darkness behind Tim's eyelids. "Did something unexpected. Even worse, something _uncharacteristic_ of you. Perhaps it would bode better to just _be_ yourself? Master Jason is many things, and none of them are something he is particularly proud of at the time. He does, however, like Robins to act as Robins, and no one else. You seem to have been in rather close contact with him, lately. Has it ever occurred to you that any noticeable change in your behaviour might... upset him? That he might blame it upon his own bad influence on you?"

"I wasn't-" Tim mumbled. "_He_ wasn't—he'd _never—-"_

"Think so lowly of himself he'd entertain the notion he might _taint_ those he comes into contact with? Master Timothy, _here_ is the greatest fallacy of your strategy. Thinking that Master Jason would think as highly of himself as you do. The Red Hood, he's hurt and disillusioned. He'd _never_ allow anyone to do him any good. But Jason- Jason is still a Robin at heart, and as such, he won't allow anyone – not even _himself_ – to wrong the ideal of Robin. Or in this case, to wrong _you_."

Tim tried to mumble something, something about how he wasn't Robin, he was _Tim, _and perhaps, if Jason learned to differentiate the two, then...

But his body didn't let him.

Between a breath and the next, he was asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>~*~<strong>**おわり****~*~**


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